The Cyclops Conspiracy (52 page)

The laser target still had not appeared. She was going to take the shot anyway. She had a good idea where the bullet needed to hit. She wasn’t leaving here without firing her weapon. Chances were good she’d hit someone important.

The elder president was concluding his speech.

Now or never!

She readjusted her eyes on the scope, pulling back slowly on the trigger.

* * *

President Hope expressed his gratitude and overwhelming pride. He couldn’t wait to see the massive vessel go to sea and asked permission of the commander in chief to be on board—an ear-splitting crack of thunder interrupted the former president. As it died off, he thanked the American people for the opportunity to serve this nation.

* * *

The injured brothers dragged Fairing’s heavy platform and placed it before the now-open window with a clear line of sight to the James River Bridge.

A series of power lines paralleled the bridge fifty yards to the north. Peter used the landmarks to gauge the distance. Peter began talking out loud, ticking off vital statistics for his brother. “There are three high-voltage stanchions between the shoreline and the one closest to the tower. They’re about two thousand feet apart. I estimate the distance to the target to be a tad over a mile.

“We’re on the fourth floor. That puts us about forty feet in the air. I guess the top of that drawbridge to be about a hundred and fifty feet over the water. That means the roof is about a hundred and ten feet higher than we are. At a range of a mile, you’ll need to aim a smidge low to avoid missing high.”

Jason adjusted his scope.

“By the slant of the rain,” Peter said, “I estimate the wind to be about ten miles per hour crossing from your right. Adjust your wind-age turret forty-four clicks.”

Jason made his adjustments. The sound of the rain and wind pummeling the windows lent the scene an eerie backdrop.

Jason sucked in a lungful of air, released half of it. He smoothly pulled back on the trigger. At that precise moment, a white burst of lightning illuminated the sky. The thunderclap accompanying it was simultaneous with the flash. The projectile streaked toward Jasmine Kader at 2,800 feet per second.

The report of the weapon, enveloped by the thunder, was almost inaudible. The gun bucked against Jason’s shoulder. A plume of white smoke seeped from the barrel of the .50 caliber. The acrid smell of cordite briefly filled their nostrils, then the smoke was sucked out into the rain.

Through the scope, Jason tracked the vapor trail of the projectile slicing the heavy air. Just under two seconds later, the projectile penetrated the side of Jasmine’s head, exiting her skull in a plume of bone, brains, and blood. It passed through so quickly, she did not move, but instead lay without ever flinching.

Peter grabbed the rifle and checked the target. He turned to Jason and said, as if he were talking about a nine iron to the eighteenth green, “Nice shot!”

Peter dropped the weapon, and it clattered to the carpet. He pushed his brother in celebration, wrapping a beefy arm around Jason’s neck. A wide, relieved grin involuntarily spread across Jason’s face.

Katherine Hope Morris took the podium, her voice cracking as she read from her notes in a short, glowing tribute to her father.

Mrs. Morris concluded her remarks and joined her brother, President Gary Hope, her father, and the Penrose executive on the bottle-break stand in front of the bow of the mighty vessel. The executive handed her a large bottle of American sparkling wine, encased in slotted aluminum and covered with a crocheted cotton sleeve, festooned with red, white, and blue streamers. She spoke the words that have been spoken for centuries. “I christen thee United States ship
Jacob R. Hope
. May God bless all who sail her!”

With a two-handed swing, Mrs. Morris smashed the bottle against the stainless-steel railing protruding from the bow. White spray foamed, and the Fleet Forces Band dove into “Anchors Away.” The throng broke into cheers and rhythmic clapping. The four stood for photos before making their way back to the stage.

Sean Murphy, the famed Irish tenor and a good friend of the elder president, sang “God Bless America.”

While the storm clouds gather far across the sea,

Let us swear allegiance to a land that’s free,

Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,

As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer.

God Bless America…

* * *

Jason checked the two prisoners. Cooper was slumped in his corner, whimpering like a schoolgirl. Fairing, on the other hand, was apoplectic, struggling against his restraints, making low, menacing sounds. He leered at Cooper, mumbled something in Arabic, then shifted his good eye toward the brothers, locking eyes with Jason. He continued mumbling inaudible and unrecognizable epithets at the pharmacist.

“What did you say?” Jason asked.

“Those pigs deserved to die,” Fairing snarled. “They destroyed my country. May Allah commend you to hell!” Fairing spat at Jason’s face again, but the wad missed and landed on his shirt.

A slow, triumphant smile stretched Jason’s lips. He leaned a little closer as Peter put a hand on his shoulders to stop him. “Sorry about your bad luck, asshole!”

Jason launched a front kick. Fairing’s head banged into the wall. He slumped, unconscious.

A team of federal agents burst through the open door, guns drawn.

“Freeze!”

Jason and Peter raised their hands in surrender. “Easy, guys.” Jason cocked a head in Fairing’s direction. “They’re the ones you want.”

“On the floor! Now!”

The brothers lay on the floor as agents surrounded them. As their hands were being secured with plasticuff s, Jason looked at his brother. “That’s another seafood dinner for me.”

Peter shook his head, dug deep into his marine corps repertoire, and released a string of vile curses. Then his face lit up in a wide smile. “Gladly,” he whispered.

The Monday-morning prescription rush was in full fury. Refills called overnight and early morning were queued on the terminal, waiting to be billed to insurers, and the laser printer ejected labels at breakneck speed. The phone chirped every few minutes as doctor’s offices called in antibiotics and cough syrups for their early appointments. The winter cold and flu season had hit full stride. Kevin Mitchell and Billy Parks scurried about. The counter was cluttered with prescriptions and pill bottles.

Most of Jason’s physical injuries had mended. The scar on his flank, the only visible reminder of his gargantuan struggle, ached when the clouds rolled in and the air grew heavy. Luckily, it could be hidden under clothing. He still limped, the torn ACL in his left knee caused by the falling agent in the hallway. Surgery to repair it was scheduled for next week. It hurt and throbbed, but Jason was thankful he was still around and able to feel pain.

He stood back with his arms folded across his chest, taking his work environment in with a renewed sense of wonder. A retail pharmacist’s
work would always be, at times, stress-filled and frustrating, he realized. Sick, suffering patients wanted their meds quickly and with as little fuss as possible. But insurance companies, laws, regulations, and the bottom line sometimes made things difficult for everyone. It was the nature of the beast.

He would never again complain about the workload or the demanding patients. He’d been through enough in the last eight weeks to keep an army of psychiatrists busy for a decade. The relative boredom was a welcome change.

As he fingered the object in his pocket, Jason let his mind wander to what had transpired in the preceding two months.

* * *

Jason and Peter rapidly explained what had happened after the unfamiliar Secret Service agents had raided the condominium on the fourth floor of the north tower. Jason demanded that Broadhurst be attended to, if he was in fact still alive. An agent was sent to look for the fallen man. Agents debriefed the two men in separate bedrooms. After twenty minutes, someone in a dark suit appeared and examined Jason’s stab wound and injured knee with what seemed to be advanced medical training. The stab wound was extremely serious and showed signs of infection. The interrogation was cut short, and Jason was rushed to the same Tidewater Regional Medical Center emergency room from which he’d escaped. As he was carried out on a stretcher, Jason noticed that Fairing and Cooper were no longer in the condo’s living room. Peter later told him he’d seen them rushed out under heavy guard as Peter was being escorted to one of the bedrooms.

Surgeons removed the festering, necrotic kidney from Jason’s flank that afternoon. The three days in intensive care battling sepsis had been touch and go. Only with a host of powerful intravenous antibiotics and other pharmaceuticals had he been able to fight off the near-fatal infection and intense pain.

A Secret Service agent and a Newport News police officer had been posted outside his ICU cubicle twenty-four hours a day. He was, after all, wanted for the murder of Sheila Boquist and for several other felonies. Jason was transferred to a step-down unit and a more conventional room after a week. Detective John Palmer and York County investigator Calvin Baxter appeared an hour after the nurses departed, wasting no time in asking pointed questions and laying out incriminating facts. Of course, Jason denied being anywhere near Sheila’s house at the time she was murdered.

Palmer had a knowing, sympathetic look in his eyes as Baxter tossed about questions. It said,
I know what happened in the towers, but there’s nothing I can say or do.
Palmer had heard the Conversation, and he knew Jason was innocent. Baxter was—and would remain—in the dark. Jasmine Kader was dead. Sam Fairing and Steven Cooper were in custody and had not been seen or heard from since. Lily and Oliver were dead, killed in a suspicious explosion aboard
Vengeance
. Everyone who could exonerate Jason was gone or had been sworn to silence. And the United States government was not about to offer up the audio to clear Jason’s name.

Jason glared at Palmer, silently demanding,
Get me out of this. You know what happened.

He was on the verge of requesting an attorney when a man in a dark suit appeared in the door, flashing a badge. It was Secret Service agent Stanley Limbert, who’d been the first agent through the door after Jason had killed Jasmine Kader. He’d taken charge during the hectic aftermath.

He motioned for the two detectives to meet him in the hallway. Snippets of heated conversation were audible. Three minutes later, Baxter and Palmer re-entered and told Jason that he was no longer a suspect. Baxter was now holding a pair of men’s shoes suspended in a large plastic evidence bag, which Jason guessed Limbert had given to him. The detectives departed.

“Who killed Sheila?” Jason demanded of Limbert.

“Jason, I’m not at liberty to say how you’ve been cleared. Just know that your innocence is undisputed.”

Limbert asked briefly about Jason’s injuries, then began his own interrogation. “We have Waterhouse’s digital recorder and the flash drive. Are there any more copies of the conversation between Zanns and her Simoon team?”

“No,” Jason lied. “Those are the only copies I’m aware of.”

Christine still had the copy Jason had brought to her house in the early hours of the morning. She’d agreed to keep its existence quiet, and it was now sitting in a safety deposit box in a local bank. He hadn’t checked yet. But the e-mail he’d received from Waterhouse was probably still in his inbox. It might prove valuable, should the government pursue charges. Pettigrew’s files were still locked in the safe in Peter’s Gun Shop.

The agent studied him. Apparently satisfied, he changed the subject. “Your silence, along with that of your cohorts, is not only expected, Jason, it is, quite frankly, required. If you speak to anyone about any of what went on during the christening, your life will become very uncomfortable. We’ve managed to keep a lid on what happened so far.”

“Eventually, people will talk,” Jason interrupted, “and the facts will leak out. The events will become the stuff of legend and conjecture. I can’t be held responsible for that.”

Limbert scowled and shrugged. “Just keep your mouth shut!”

Jason remembered that Limbert had forbidden emergency technicians to enter Fairing’s condo on the fourth floor. Only the agents, Jason, Peter, Fairing, and Cooper knew what had almost happened in Fairing’s condo. Jason was certain Detective John Palmer had been leaned on heavily—most likely threatened, as Jason was being now. Not one mention in the papers or on TV had been made about an assassination attempt. There had been an article below the fold about the towers being locked down because of a shooting of a resident on the fourth floor. The story was quickly relegated to the local section, then disappeared.

“I want something in return for my silence,” Jason said.

“And what is that?”

“I want my name cleared. The public thinks I’m an escaped murderer. I want an article printed on the front page of the
Gazette
declaring I’m no longer a suspect.”

Limbert tugged an earlobe. “Fair enough. We can make that happen. We’ve arranged to drop the charges for the crimes you committed while on the run as well.”

After Limbert’s visit, Jason closed his eyes, sighed, and began to shake uncontrollably. The mental and emotional scars would last three lifetimes. Three weeks passed before he could sleep through the night, and even then he needed heavy doses of alprazolam and antidepressants to do it. But the sedated sleep could not be called refreshing.

* * *

“I can’t find the end-of-week report,” the female voice announced from the back hall. The click-clack of heels preceded her appearance. Christine strode through the doorway on a mission. She saw him, and her eyes sparkled.